“My dear John, where are you? It was quite too sweet of you to——”
Suddenly becoming aware that “dear John” was nowhere to be seen, and that there was only a slender and remarkably pretty girl bowing and smiling to her rather timidly, Mrs. Graham-Shute stopped short, drew in her extended hand, and stared at Chris with a face which had in an instant lost its air of expansive good humour.
Chris, who had been reassured by the good-natured expression which she had at first seen on the visitor’s face, felt a chill come over her. She was not afraid of this self-important lady, but she perceived at once that there would be “unpleasantness” between her and “mamma.” With the quickness of budding womanhood, she had taken in at a glance every detail of the new-comer’s appearance, and had had time for a peep at the young people behind.
And what she had seen was a woman of medium height, enormously stout, with a large, many-chinned face, in which were a pair of eyes which ran over her interlocutor for a few moments with frank curiosity, and then grew dull, while her tongue still ran on, and her mind occupied itself with some subject foreign to her words.
So that while her words to Chris were, “Dear me! So very sorry that Mr. Bradfield was too busy to receive us himself! The poor dear man really does work too hard with his collections, and his philanthropical projects!” her thoughts were: “I wonder who on earth you are, and what you’re doing here! And I hope, whoever you are, that we shall be able to turn you out!”
Unfortunately, her thoughts spoke through her looks more eloquently than her words. Between her suspicions of the real state of the case, and the possibility that this young lady might be a relation of Mr. Bradfield’s, the poor lady felt uncertain how to treat her, and alternated between the most distant coldness and bursts of confidential effusiveness. When, however, Chris said: “Would you like to go up to your rooms? My mother thought you would like what we call the lighthouse room at the end,” Mrs. Graham-Shute stared at her with unmistakable hostility.
“Your mother is staying here with you, then?” she said shortly.
“My mother is the housekeeper,” answered Chris, with a blush.
Poor Mrs. Graham-Shute’s extensive person seemed to expand still further under the influence of her just indignation. To be received by this minx of a housekeeper’s daughter! A girl whose very existence, to judge by her face and figure, was a danger and an insult to all Mr. Bradfield’s relations who had any expectations from him. What was dear John thinking about? She called her children much as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings at approaching danger, and they bustled and bounced out of the room.